Deception
by LAZYcrazyMISFIT
Summary: Russia works beside his people in order to be able to see China again after being separated by their bosses. However, when his hope is shattered by a single sentence, he is done with petty rules and regulations. I DO NOT OWN HETALIA.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, hello there. A few things:**

**If you're a fan of my other fic "We No Speak" I'll be releasing a new chapter sometime in the next week. (I think I've put it off for long enough…)**

**This fic was written simply because I was like: "I think I'm gonna write a fanfic for Russia." While at my friend's house at one in the morning. So…yeah. I added a bit and proofread, but if you notice a mistake you can always leave a review or PM me. (Also, please keep in mind that I wrote this at one in the morning, so I'm sorry if something doesn't make sense…) **

**I do not own Hetalia. **

**Thanks for reading! (This is directed at both you, my kind reader, and my friend who helped me a bit with this.)**

The harsh winter wind stung his cheek as he walked in sync with all the other poor souls in the dreary city of St. Petersburg. The smog hung in the frigid air, and many of the workers could be seen hacking and wheezing on the way to their homes, if you could even call them that. One elderly worker fell into the snow face first, but no one made a move to help her. As sick as it was, a death meant an open job, and that's just what people needed. The man walked with the people, and he was accepted by them. Everything from his soot-stained face to his worn tan coat belonged with the people. However, he was obviously different from the rest.

He stood a full head taller than the rest of them, and he possessed hair as white as the lifeless snow that he trampled under his boots. His eyes were a hypnotic lavender, and his gait was strong and proud with just a hint of defiance. He worked alongside the peasants, toiling the same long hours they did, and sometimes even more in the dirty boiler room of the factory. The mysterious man gave off a dangerous aura, and the only ones who ever dared go near him were the children who worked in the factory along with him.

The children loved the man, but even they didn't know him by his actual name. The only name he was ever known to have was a word spoken by only the smallest of children in the factory, and the adults feared to speak it because they thought it was something akin to blasphemy to use that name for such a man. They called him Russia.

Many joked and said that Russia would be a withered old soul if he were human, and even more said that it would be funny if this man was actually their country. He was a strong, healthy young man. If he was their beloved home, wouldn't he have become weak by now? How fitting, for a country to have to work alongside his own people. The laborers all laughed at the thought of this extreme display of socialist values as the young man toiled away in the boiler room.

The workers amused Russia to the point where he had to stop the kols from escaping his lips as he brought his hammer down with a rather impressive thump once again. They all thought they were so clever and smart, but Russia knew the truth. They laughed at the thought of a human representative for a country, and a few had even found it so funny that they started envisioning what some of the representatives would look like. Russia found it hard not to smile when he thought of their rather crude portrayal of many nations, as most of them had been rather insulting and racist. He rather liked America's, but his own was his favorite.

It had been the form of a haggard old man with balding brown hair and pitiful, downcast eyes. His nose had been large and pointy, and he wore the tattered remains of a uniform from the days of tsars. The form had been hunched over, struggling under the weight of his elite. The peasants were behind the form, driving him with whips, torches, and weapons. He giggled at their ignorance as he walked home that day, and suddenly found himself wondering what they thought China's representative would be.

He walked faster at the reminder of the small man. Yao, his Yao. His face became drawn and sorrowful at the thought of his beloved, and his heart ached at the thought of being able to see his little China doll again. He was working as a laborer to earn enough money to reach that goal. Even as a country, his boss insisted upon making sure Russia got the same thing as everyone else. His food was the same gruel at all mealtimes, his clothes were the same tattered rags, and his pay was the exact meager wage earned by every other able worker in his country. He did get a small amount of compensation for being a country, so he lived off of that and saved everything else in the one place he knew he could always hide his treasures.

The doll was one of the few gifts that he and Yao had exchanged before their bosses separated them. It was a China doll with a wise face and painted red smile that made the doll seem as though it contained some great secret or untold wisdom. The doll looked exactly like him. It possessed the same long hair that fell like a sheet of the finest silk over the same almond eyes that could make him melt with one glance, and the doll even carried the same stiff demeanor as its muse. He found himself getting lost in memories as he traced his calloused hands over the rouged cheeks of the doll, and his mind took him back to a time when the person belonged to him and the doll hadn't even been thought of. He sighed as he began unscrewing the doll's head, revealing a meager wad of cash.

Russia was finishing up screwing back on the doll's porcelain head as he heard a loud knock at his door. He rushed to open it and smiled as he saw it was his sister, Ukraine. Her words barely registered as she handed him a small scroll, which he took and nearly forgot to say goodbye to his sister out of his excitement. The parchment meant news from Yao.

He unrolled the thin scroll and began to read the miniscule Chinese characters. He frowned when he realized that the letter was not from Yao, but from the government of the country. He read the words over and over again, but he couldn't seem to focus on anything but one sentence.

"**We regret to inform you of the death of Representative Wang Yao." **

His entire world froze as he collapsed into a trembling heap on the cold floor.

**Yep. Most of ya'll probably hate me right now, but remember: the title is true. *wink wink* **

**Please review if you want me to continue! **

**Rawrs and Wubs! :3 **

**~Misfit**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey ya'll!**

**So here's chapter two! (Sorry it took so long… school is crazy right now. Blah blah blah, *insert more common excuses here*) **

**Thanks to those who have commented, favorited, and followed! 'Tis greatly appreciated!~**

***I DON'T OWN HETALIA, OR ANYTHING FOR THAT MATTER.***

He sat there for an eternity, frozen in shock, and reread the parchment countless times. Each time he read it, his heart seemed to sink further and further and he grew more repulsed by the paper. He gazed at his love's likeness, the doll, and only felt the growing dread inside of him get a deeper hold on his heart. There was no way to see him now. His Yao was-

He couldn't even finish the sentence in thought, and even the possibility revolted him so much that he barely made it into the bathroom in time to wretch up his small daily rations. Even in his grief, he felt slightly remorseful to see the food go to waste. He was one of the lucky ones who were even given rations, and the memory of those millions starving in the countryside made his stomach turn with dry heaves again. He slid weakly to the floor, for once giving up his aura of power and stability, and began thinking of how this could have possibly happened.

Had he been overworked? Ivan immediately ruled this possibility out. He had known Yao had had it as hard as he did by his letters filled with incessant rants and quite colorful language, but he never thought it would even be a possibility to work the young man to death. They were countries, after all, and they didn't die that easily.

Had he been assassinated? Impossible, the young man was very careful and could defend himself quite well despite his fragile façade. He didn't even eat anything unless he made it himself, and he knew where every cow, rice grain, and apple had been grown, how it had been grown, who grew it, and how it was picked or butchered.

Ivan was running all of these possibilities through his mind, when he remembered a little-known fact about the nations: They could only truly die by their own hands. More often than not, this meant the actual country itself and its political, environmental, and social conflicts, but every so often a country would off themselves. That was why some countries had representatives and others didn't, and the subject of these countries' deceased representatives was never discussed. Russia knew that Yao wouldn't do that from the many late-night discussions he had had with the small man, and the country surely didn't kill Yao because it was doing pretty well at the moment.

This meant one thing: Yao was still alive.

Many miles away, a small man was heaving with heavy sobs and gasping for breath while sprawling out on his dingy, twin-sized bed. His doll-like face was flushed from his cries, which had been going on for hours since the arrival of the letter. His jet-black hair was messy and filled with tangles from his stress-induced act of balling his hair up into his fists in frustration. He ran his fingers through the strands that were supposed to be his bangs for the thousandth time that day, making the normally cooperative strands stick out in a dozen different directions.

Yao was one of the oldest and strongest countries, but he was a very heavy griever. He looked to his small shelf right above his small desk lamp to see his doll. It was a nesting doll, completely comprised of Russia in varying ages and stages, dressed in everything from rags to robes to traditional wear to a panda suit. The small doll was the only colorful thing in the room, and Yao felt his eyes drifting toward it every time he tried to look away.

He eventually gave in and snatched the doll from the shelf to examine it more closely. The doll looked so much like him that he found it nearly unbearable to look at, and the doll's eyes held an unknown emotion that even after all this time, Yao had never been able to figure out. He had asked Ivan about the eyes when he was given the doll, but had received nothing but a mischievous smile and a murmur of a: "I'll tell you next time." There had always been a next time for them back then, but they had run out of them all too soon.

"And now, I'll never know."

Yao fell asleep with salty tears dried into lines down his face, completely unruly hair, flushed cheeks, puffy eyes, and a small, colorful doll, tucked underneath his arm.

AND SO THE PLOT THICKENS!

Thanks for reading, and remember: Reviews are more awesome than Prussia!

Peace and Wubs!

~Misfit


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